Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (29 page)

The realization that GHQ had no arms, no real plan, and had—in the view of many Republicans—abandoned the principals of the 1916 Rising, had caused the movement in the north to turn to the physical-force men. The ones that had fought in the forties and fifties. The men that Brian Riordan had come of age with, fought with, and been interned with. Men that had inherited the legacy of such luminaries as Michael Collins, Padraig Pearse, James Connolly and Casey’s own grandfather, Brendan Riordan. Men like Casey himself who were neither philosophers nor socialists, but men of action. Men who often died well before old age could lay claim to them.

Pamela touched the St. Jude’s medal she’d worn around her neck from the time she was twelve years old. The words were worn smooth from handling but she knew them by heart.
Ora pro nobus.
Pray for us. St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. A saint she hoped she would not have to offer up many prayers to on behalf of her husband, now that they were back in this hard little corner of the world.

“Watch over him, deliver him from danger,” she said, fingers moving slowly over the medallion in a rhythmic pattern. She closed her eyes, willing the cold fear in her belly to go away. “And may thy grace be with him always. Amen,” she finished softly and turned away from the window.

PAMELA PARKED PAT’S CAR down by the cypress gate. The same gate where Casey had waited for her during their courtship. Above her head two golden cypresses swayed and murmured in the spring wind. Between these was the ancient gate, weathered smooth and silver-gray through many seasons. She put her hand to the latch, and with that small action came a rush of memory of long, quiet evenings, and conversations that went into the wee hours. Talk of ships and shoes and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings.

Beyond the cypresses was the oak wood, heavily under-storied with dark green holly bushes. In Ireland the old folk called holly the ‘gentle tree’ and it had long been believed to be a favorite of the fairies. In the stories her father had told her when she was small, hollies were always the trees that covered the roads to the Fairy country, guarding that world from this. That it grew so heavily along the boundaries of the Kirkpatrick land seemed appropriate, for she always felt a sense of stepping out of time while she was here.

Further up the path the house rose out of the surrounding woods, amber and misted from its gardens and gates, the sound of the sea a lullaby in the distance. The front of the house was built along dignified lines. Georgian, long-windowed, a widow who remembered the beauty of her youth with a quiet satisfaction. The back half of the house, however, was pure Victorian fancy. Small half-moon portholes, round towers, fanciful cupolas and an air of whimsy bespoke of barefoot, moonlit meanderings in dewy gardens, boating down gently currented rivers, and bowtie and straw boater picnics.

The air was smoky with the scent of freshly turned earth, the roses shimmering a pale green with new growth. By June there would be a cascade of pink, white and red all the way up to the house, climbing on long limbs around the glass walls of the study and winding their way up the amber stones.

Pamela paused for a moment to collect herself. She hadn’t seen Jamie for two years, and now her stomach was knotted with nerves. She took the path that led around to the back of the house and the service entrance into the kitchen. Fragrant heaps of pine needles, the last of winter’s detritus, lay in along the pathway, releasing a sharp tang as her shoes pressed down on them.

It was quiet in the watery light, a certain lack of animation in the very air telling her Jamie was not home. Pamela tried to squelch the disappointment that flooded her at the knowledge of his absence.

She rang the bell at the service entrance and after a few minutes of suspenseful silence heard the huffling tread of Maggie.

“Well it’s past time ye showed up—” the housekeeper began indignantly and then stopped, vinegared words falling away from the round ‘O’ of her mouth.

Then Maggie smiled and opened the warm expanse of her amply fleshed arms. “Well if it isn’t Herself then, come home.”

Pamela sank into her embrace gratefully, smelling the comfort of flour and cinnamon and butter. “Scones?” she asked, lighter of heart than she had been only seconds before. This coupled with an odd sensation that she had indeed, come home.

“Himself’s not here,” Maggie said releasing Pamela and then dabbing her face with a damp teacloth.

“I didn’t think so. Is he gone for long?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual, as if Jamie’s whereabouts were of little concern to her.

Maggie raised an eyebrow at her. “No, he ran up the coast this morning but he’ll be back this afternoon. Bishop’s comin’ round for dinner tonight. I thought you were the butcher, I expect I’ll have to call down an’ see what’s happened to the poor sheep that’s to be the man’s dinner tonight. That delivery boy they’ve hired is far too fond of takin’ the drink despite the time of day. Come an’ sit, I’ll make ye a cup of tea an’ a bite.”

“Don’t go to any trouble, I only came to say hello and let Jamie know we were back.”

Maggie raised the other eyebrow. “An’ ye think he’s not aware that yer home. Ye know the man better, no?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Now sit ye down. When the day comes that a cup of tea an’ a liddle biscuit is any trouble I’ll no longer be fit to work in this kitchen. Besides ye look as though ye could use some feedin’, yer barely more than bones with the skin stretched tight.”

Pamela sat down gratefully, the scents and warmth of Maggie’s kitchen wrapping about her like an echo of their mistress’ embrace.

Only moments later, Maggie set a cup of tea before her and a plate of sugar-dusted scones. Beside these she placed a tray of milk and sugar, clotted cream and strawberry preserves. Two scones, and well into her third cup of tea, Pamela felt the knot in her chest loosen a little and a sense of well-being descend that she hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

“So have ye come on holiday then?” Maggie asked, peeling carrots into the sink, while keeping half an eye on the clock and muttering distinctly uncomplimentary things about the butcher’s boy under her breath.

Pamela felt her ephemeral sense of well-being begin to slide like sand out of an hourglass. “No,” she answered quietly, “we’re not visiting. We’ve come back to stay.”

Maggie didn’t so much as hesitate in her carrot peeling. “Have ye now?”

“Aye, we have,” Pamela said dispiritedly.

“An’ how is the boy?” Maggie asked as if Pamela’s news was of no surprise to her. Which it likely wasn’t, considering just who was master of this house.

“He’s fine. He’s already found a job on a building site.”

“Fine, hmm?” Maggie asked, managing to convey a world of disapproval in one syllable. “Didn’t find Boston to his likin’, did he?”

“No, not entirely.”

“An’ yerself?”

“I liked it fine,” she replied softly.

“I thought ye might have,” Maggie said, throwing a sprinkling of salt into a steaming pot on the stove.

“How is he?”

Maggie gave her a sharp look over one plump shoulder. It was a loaded question at best. At worst, there were likely to be answers she didn’t want to hear.

“There’s a woman been hangin’ about, seems a mite more determined to stay than he is to have her, but I think she’s startin’ to wear the laddie down a bit.”

“You sound as though you disapprove.”

“Well the boy needs his female company. ‘Tisn’t natural to live as he has, though Lord knows he’s no monk—” Maggie stopped short, realizing perhaps she was saying more than was entirely appropriate. “But this one has designs on him. Wants to be the lady of this house she does.”

“Perhaps,” Pamela said gently, “that would be no bad thing. It’s to be expected that he should marry again at some point.”

Maggie shook her head. “Aye agreed, but not this one.” She eyed Pamela shrewdly, who in turn fastened her gaze on the china pattern, though a flush crept up from her neckline. “Time was I thought it’d be yerself that the man took to wife. He’d no notion of divorce until ye came along.”

Pamela shook her head. “Jamie and I have never had our timing down. I’m not right for him.”

“Well once yer fine Casey started hangin’ about the back door I knew ye were done for. Took Jamie a little longer to see it though.”

“Casey’s charms are a little less obvious when you’re not female,” Pamela said with a grin.

Maggie returned the grin with interest. “Aye that’s likely so. The charms aren’t lost on the women at all, at all though. De’il’s tongue in that head. Never felt as compelled to feed a man as I did with that one.”

“Be glad that’s all you were compelled to do,” Pamela said, with a solemn wink.

Maggie laughed. “I’d likely be more than even that laddie was willin’ to take on.”

She sighed then and heaved her bulk away from the sink. “Well that sheep is not goin’ to deliver itself, though the wee butcher’s boy is goin’ to wish it damn well had once I get hold of his ear.”

“You go on then, I’ll clear up the tea things.”

Maggie cast a grateful eye at her before walking stiffly to where her coat had hung everyday for the last thirty years, on a simple hook beside the kitchen door. Pamela watched with a pang. Maggie’s arthritis had advanced quickly since Pamela had last seen her. Through Jamie’s letters Pamela knew he had tried to hire extra help to remove the bulk of the physical work from Maggie’s shoulders, and had been roundly chastised, in words, he’d said, that would have made an ironmonger blush for shame. The day that Maggie couldn’t rule over the Kirkpatrick household with an iron fist and razor tongue would be a tragic day indeed.

A few minutes later she’d seen Maggie off, feeling a deep sympathy for the butcher’s boy. If the lad had sense he’d take to his heels the minute he saw Maggie’s broad form darken the shop door.

Jamie still hadn’t returned when the tea things were done so she wandered idly about the main floor of the house, reacquainting herself with its quirks and beauties. The checkerboard pattern of the main hall, done on the diagonal in black and white marble, had always made her feel as if she ought to pull out a pocketwatch and start running, all the while muttering
‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late...’

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, laying a hand on the purple heartwood banister. Up the spiralling stairs were the bedrooms—twelve of them. Fitted out with the finest of furniture and linens, all fit for royalty, which in a sense the Kirkpatricks had once been in these parts. The master suite, twice as large and opulent as the rest, was where the current prince of this castle laid his head when he was in town.

Gilt-framed portraits lined the wall to the reaches of the upper floor. Portraits that had survived the fire, the oldest of these being Silken James. Who, it was rumored, had once enjoyed the favor of Queen Elizabeth I.

He looked alarmingly like the present Lord Kirkpatrick: the thick silky gold hair, the sharp green eyes that brimmed with suppressed amusement, and the air, even in this old picture, of a glittering febrile tension that infected all those around.

Along the shining expanse of hall were several doors leading off to formal sitting rooms, a small ballroom, and an expansive oak-panelled library which housed a collection that had been passed down through eight generations. All the books had survived the fire in the original house, as the library had been under repairs at the time with its contents stored elsewhere.

Her favorite room lay at the far end of the hall, though, where a narrow corridor branched off. Here the floor turned to stone flagging, and a heavy wooden door guarded the entrance to the study. It was a rare visitor who ever crossed this particular threshold, but Jamie had never barred its door to her. The door creaked slightly as she pushed against it, the smell of peat ash and sandalwood filling her senses as the portal to this particular cave of wonders opened.

Soft spring light filtered through the newly budded rose canes that twined about the glass walls, bathing the room with a pale green tint. Small treasures lay cast about, as though they’d been brought in by the tide and deposited on the shore of carpet.

An ancient chest, stained with saltwater and piled high with crumbling leather-bound books, stood squat and disheveled at the ends of the two large rump-sprung sofas. A cashmere blanket, the color of rubies, was tossed over the back of one sofa, a pile of sapphire and emerald cushions heaped within the cozy depths. A troop of squash-faced fairies, made from what looked like petrified toadstools, capered across the mantelpiece of the huge stone fireplace. A Victorian black silk top hat lay on its side on a whatnot table, a long pipe with a curly cherrywood stem peeking out from beside it. A teapot, cracked and covered with a jumble of nursery rhyme characters, was filled to overflowing with chestnuts.

All these things were caught within the reflection of an old crystal ball, its surface clouded with age, giving the impression that the whole room was slightly off-kilter and filled with fog. Jamie claimed the thing gave him the heebie-jeebies, but as it was a gift from his godmother—who was a Russian gypsy—he was more afraid to cast it out than to live with any possible evil eye.

Of all the rooms in the house, it was the one Pamela thought of as being the most essentially his—the room where he collected his thoughts or let them unwind, the room where he allowed himself the occasional luxury of emotion. It was the room he felt most intimately toward. It was here he’d told her he loved her, one miserable spring day. Here that he had held her for hours the night after she’d been raped. Here that she’d left the letter that told him goodbye, when she could not find the courage to tell him herself.

On his desk lay a hodgepodge of things. Even here there was no reading his mind or character in an easy fashion. The articulated skeleton of a puffin, a small pile of seeds, a wilted flower that looked as though it might have had a previous incarnation as a dusty blue forget-me-not. Two stacks of books, bindings worn and well loved, their titles ranging from Wilkie Collins’
The Woman in White
to a heavy tome on astrophysics. Papers, a jumble of pens, a tidy stack of correspondence and a pile of disregarded invitations, still sealed in their thick, creamy envelopes.